The Dopplebeater Defense
by Eriala
Summary: In which Remus remembers, Sirius forgets, and they both try to learn again. Slash. Maybe complete, maybe not. Second epilogue up!
1. Past Midnight

**Disclaimer:** I do not own harry potter, i am not j.k. rowling, etc...

**A/N:** This certainly isn't my best writing, but I've grown rather attached to some of the later chapters, and they needed something before them. Also, I don't write much for this fandom, so please tell me what you think.

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**Chapter One**

It began past midnight, every night; you were Marauders, after all, and any time earlier simply would not do. You would sit in the kitchen, on either side of the grimy wooden table, and talk, and talk like you would never stop.

Sometimes, your shoulder would gently pass his as you entered the room, your foot would brush against his under the table, you would subconsciously touch a hand or arm in a way that was not quite platonic. Though Sirius made no effort to encourage this, he never drew away, and you wanted to shout, "Do you remember? Don't you remember?" but you never did, because you already knew the answer.

Once, in the middle of August, you went to his room to tell him that Harry would be coming soon; it was just past noon, but he was still asleep, in true Marauder fashion. You'd sighed, shaken him, slapped him across the face, shouted, "Padfoot!" – to no avail. Finally resorting to drenching him in ice-cold water from your wand, you had caused him to jump suddenly awake, and stare at you as though seeing a ghost. Vacantly, he had asked, "Who're you?" blurring his words slightly.

"It's me," you said, confused. "Remus. Moony. Sirius, are you alright?"

"Moony?" he had asked, still blank for a long moment, then embarrassed, as though he could not imagine forgetting you.

He shrugged, like nothing had happened. "What is it?"

You looked him up and down, searching for clues as for anything wrong. There were scratch marks across his hands, where Harry's owl had pecked him, but his eyes were brighter than usual, and his lips… You quickly looked away, before you broke the number one rule you had made for yourself, since it had first become clear that Sirius had no interest in you the way he used to:_ you may NOT check out Sirius Black._

"I'm going to get Harry, now," you told him, "on Dumbledore's orders." You had added, knowing he would ask, "And he says you can't come."

Rolling his eyes, not noticing how antsy you had become, he said, "It sort of makes me feel like I'm back at school again, you know? All these 'Dumbledore's orders' and 'Dumbledore says' – like school again, without the pranks."

You couldn't help but to grin at that, your unease almost gone. "We could always prank Molly," you suggest mildly.

He got that plotting look, then, the look that took all the haunting of Azkaban away, and you decided that it must have been a trick of the light, that kept him from recognizing you.


	2. Dopplebeater Defense

**Disclaimer: **as usual. please. these things are starting to bother me - if i owned harry potter, you'd know. 

**A/N:** and the first-review-cookie goes to...Konnie. thanks. i would say i'm sorry that this chapter is so short, because that's what everyone else seems to do - only, i like this chapter just how it is, and if you don't like the length, i couldn't care less.

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**Chapter Two**

He would pause, occasionally, when you brought up a certain memory. Pause with his eyebrows drawn together and his head slightly turned to the side in an expression of confusion.

"…And then Prongs made Snape's underwear sing a ballad, remember?" you would continue, as though nothing was wrong, but you were watching him closely. It was what you were good at, watching.

With a roll of his eyes that was more dismayed than sarcastic, he would shake his head, answer slowly, "No... I don't," as though he could not believe it himself, and the room would be silent for a moment. "I suppose Azkaban has taken a few memories from me, then," he would add quietly.

You hated to see Sirius quiet. It proved how much he had changed. It proved how much everything had changed.

"Let me fill you in," you would say, with an uneasy laugh. "There had been an accident with a flowered teapot serenading you during Charms, and it had given James some creative ideas…"

Sirius would grin wolfishly, as he always had, laugh so hard that Molly once came down in her dressing gown to scold the two of you for 'waking the children,' while the talking mirror she had hung on the wall nearby giggled hysterically.

You were never sure whether to be disappointed that he had lost these memories, or proud, that recollections of you were too perfect to escape a dementor. So you would smile, your classic Moony-smile, and simply be grateful it didn't happen often.

Enough of your teenage years had been spent with James that you could still think of life as a game of Quidditch. So the opposing beaters had thrown a Dopplebeater Defense – a term referring to a simultaneous attack by both beaters against a single player, which you had learned at the age of eleven, the day the other three Marauders had charmed a copy of _Quidditch Through the Ages_ to stick to your hands. One player was temporarily down – it didn't mean you wouldn't win the game, if you tried hard enough.


	3. HeGotOff

**Disclaimer:** You know. 

**A/N:** I've hit a complete dead spot in this story, and have only hazy ideas of what I want to happen between this chapter and my already-written last chapter. I'll be putting this story on hold, probably deleting it, and will only write/post more if I receive a decent amount of reviews (unlikely). I offer many thanks for the two reviews I've received already; please try some of my other fics.

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**Chapter Three**

"Alright," you said, always the organized Marauder, "What does Molly hate most?"

"Me." It wasn't said bitterly, but you could tell that at any moment he would begin to brood again, which you couldn't stand. The point of a prank – as was explained in _Padfoot's Guide to Pranking_, your copy of which you had burned the day they had taken him to Azkaban – was as a diversion, as much as an amusement. Having lived so much of your lives in war, you and he both knew the power of distraction from misery.

"I was thinking maybe _dirt_," you suggested.

"Or this house."

"Tsk, tsk, Padfoot," you snapped, in your best imitation of Professor McGonagall, "not too creative today, are you?"

"That song," he suggested at last, still stinging from your comment, and possibly remembering the story you had told him of Snape's underwear.

"Song?"

"You know, Fred and George's chant, when Harry's name got cleared – it was a sort of 'he-got-off, he-got-off, he-got-off – "

"Perfect," you agreed. "Although they might get blamed…"

He shook his head. "They're in Diagon Alley today. No, Moony, we'll look completely guilty of this one, I promise."

And the two of you set to work with a forced sincerity, setting touch- and time-activating spells on every item within reach. You both reached toward the same cupboard simultaneously, hands knocking against each other; he turned toward you, preparing to argue for his rights to bewitch this particular cupboard, when before you knew what you were doing, you leaned forward and kissed him, roughly.

He made no reaction until you had broken off again, embarrassed and staring awkwardly at the wall behind him. "What was that?" he asked, running his tongue against his lips as though trying to capture your taste.

You sighed, and turned your head away. "Sorry," you muttered, humiliated and defeated. "I just thought…with you, and me, and all of" – you gestured around wildly – "_this_, that we could be…how we used to be."

Puzzled, he stared into the dying embers of the fire, so that his Azkaban-dulled eyes took on a bit of its orange glow. "We used to… to be like that, then, didn't we?"

"Yeah," you said. "We did." You suddenly realized the kind of power you had over him; you could say that anything had happened, but he had forgotten, and he would have no choice but to believe him.

"I remembered." His voice was so soft, so unlike him, that you barely caught the words.

"You – "

"Love just didn't make sense, in Azkaban…" You had never seen Sirius blush so much before, so the sight could have been amusing, but instead you simply felt betrayed. "…I thought I must have dreamed it. I made myself forget."

"Oh."

With a weak Sirius-smirk, he asked you, hesitant, knowing how this was killing you, "Want to… try again, then?

Shaking your head, looking everywhere but him, you said, "Maybe some other time," and followed your feet out of the kitchen. As your hand brushed against the doorknob, it emitted a piercing squeal of, _"He-got-off, he-got-off, he-got off…"_


	4. Halloween

**Disclaimer:** Not mine. 

**A/N: **I realized after posting this that it'd accidentally submitted two chapters in one, so if you read this any time in the past day it was a lot longer. I'm sorry. I've been working on my novel for too long and it's messing with my mind.  
I haven't even read through this, let alone edited, so alert me to any mistakes.

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**Chapter Four  
**

If Sirius was sometimes a bit immature, sometimes, you never blamed him. He had spent his twenties in Hell, after all, and if he wanted to make up for it now, that was fine. What you could never stand was the childlike way in which he would skirt problems, ignore them and with they would go away. You, apparently, were one of those problems.

There were no more casual talks, each night, after you kissed him; he became moodier, not only because Harry returned to school so soon after, but because you could hardly look at him without blushing furiously. Once or twice, you would find yourself talking about the weather.

September had passed, and most of October, before you were drawn together again; you would be off on Order work for weeks at a time, glad to be away, and he left caged and alone in Headquarters, but Halloween had finally, inescapably come.

Halloween. hal-ə-'wën _n_. **1.** A holiday of pranks and chocolate and everything else you have ever stood for; **2.** The single day of the year to render both you and Sirius speechless and miserable with grief and memories, the one night you can never help but to curl up and cry.

You sat in the kitchen at Number Twelve, that night, as Dumbledore had no assignments for you. Sat in the kitchen with a cup of tea and stared at the steam rising for at least five minutes before breaking into Sirius's secret stash of firewhisky and pouring a substantial amount into your mug.

Enter Sirius. His hair a mess, as usual. Oddly quiet, but for once not at all drunk. "Happy fuckin' Halloween, Moony," he grumbled in your general direction. "Whatever that means."

You raised your mug of spiked tea in his general direction and took a large gulp, making a face at the heat of the drink, and he gave a small, un-Sirius-like chuckle.

"What did I tell you about stealing my firewhisky?" he asked, in a falsely reprimanding tone.

You suggested, hopefully, "'Please do, and often?'"

"But _never_ mix it with your damnable Moony tea," he corrected, not at all angry. You noticed that his eyes were a bit puffy, and realized that you had never really seen him cry; you wondered why you had ignored him for so long.

You apologized, both for the tea and the disregard, and he scoffed, as he always would when he thought things were getting to sentimental. Though you were feeling rather fuzzy, the next thing you knew, Sirius had dumped your tea into the sink, saying that Halloween was no time to be drunk.

"I think you're a bit too late for that," you mumbled, and he patted you on the shoulder, snapping, "Nonsense, Moony," and some other words you couldn't hear because you had just remembered that it was Halloween.

"Halloween's that kind of day that makes you loose track of time, isn't it?" you asked.

He raised one eyebrow uncomprehendingly, most likely thinking that he had not disposed of your firewhisky in time.

"It's just that I know it's been fourteen years, but it feels like five minutes, and – Merlin, Padfoot! How do that with your eyebrow?"

"I'm very talented," he agreed lightly, the first light words all night, repeating the move. You attempted, and failed, to copy the gesture, just as he reached over and attempted to "help" – everything was still blurry and fuzzy, but Sirius's hand on your face was all that really mattered anyway. He knew it, too.

Though you were never sure what happened next, you awoke at dawn the next morning, sitting with your head on the kitchen table, and you knew that everything would be all right again.


	5. Not Prongs

**Disclaimer:** Not mine. 

**A/N:** Alert me to any mistakes, please.

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**Chapter Five**

His greatest excuse was, "Prongs would do it."

"But you're not Prongs," you would argue.

"And as he's not here to be Prongs, I suppose I'll have to do it for him."

At which you would sigh, roll your eyes, and wish that this was still fifth year, when you could lift a heavy book in front of your face and use it as a curtain between yourself and whatever ridiculous situation Sirius was throwing himself into. But the War took that shield away from you, made you understand that sometimes absurd things were necessary. The veil of protection that your books and knowledge that had hung before you grew thinner, and thinner, until you couldn't escape your life anymore.

You liked to believe that the veil no longer existed.

And it was no longer fifth year. As Sirius said, Prongs was gone, and no one but you would run after him if he did something dumb. No one but you could keep him indoors.

Several times he would murmur something about fresh air and race for the door, and you would have to stun him, drag him back and lock him in his room.

He would swear at you afterwards, usually in a loving sort of way that meant 'same old Moony, just being Moony,' because you were both afraid of what would happen if you were to argue for to long. You would give a stuttering apology, he would raise an eyebrow; you would remember Halloween, and all would be forgiven.

"I could just check on Harry," he would suggest.

"Floo's too dangerous," you'd remind him, as though he didn't already know.

"But Prongs would do it."

_You're not Prongs._

_But, as he's not here to be Prongs…_

"Harry is there to be Prongs, now," you told him calmly one day, and he slapped you across the face.

"Sorry," he said, a minute later. "I don't know what that was for." You didn't press he matter, because you had learned long ago not to question the mind of Sirius Black.

"I hate it when you apologize," you said.

He looked surprised. "There's a new side of you, Moony," he commented, the look on his face revealing how far away his thoughts were, somewhere with Harry (and possibly a Quidditch field).

"I'm full of surprises." That has never been true. You had always been about as hard to decipher as the textbooks you once read for pleasure, describable in a few words. The first word was werewolf. Every aspect of you, from your graying hair to patched clothing, had always spelled it out as clearly as the identification that Dolores Umbridge had once suggested that werewolves should wear around their necks.

"But I've always known that," said Sirius, in his rough, smirking voice, drawing nearer. And nearer. And nearer, and –

There was the sound of footsteps by the kitchen door, receding clumsily up the staircase with a flash of pink hair and a familiar glare.

"Nymphie!" Sirius called after her, drawing away from you.

She whirled around, just as he had intended. "_Don't_ you call me that, Sirius Black," she snapped, her voice deadly even in a way that befitted a traditional daughter of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black _('Toujours Pur')_.

Watching her retreating back, Sirius asked, not unkindly, "What crawled up her arse?" as you frowned and suggested sarcastically, "Could it have been something we did?"

"Nearly did, Moony," he snapped, stalking out after her; you hoped fervently he would not attempt to follow Tonks, for his own safety.


	6. Once Upon a Time

**Disclaimer: **as always.

**A/N:** I've gone through the earlier chapters and fixed a few typos. I know there's still a few there, but at least it's not so bad. I know that this story has little or no plot. Neither does anything else I write; you're going to have to deal with it.**  
**

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**Chapter Seven**

Sirius tiptoed back into the kitchen within ten minutes, disgruntled, the top of his head smoking slightly and giving off a distinctive smell of burning hair. "I wouldn't go near that one if I was you, Moony," he grumbled, annoyed.

"What'd she say to you?" you asked, attempting and failing to copy Sirius's trademark raised eyebrow.

He gestured toward his hair. "Didn't actually _say_ much."

He had that look he got sometimes, the one that meant: _your turn_, and you rolled your eyes, saying, "Fine, I'll go," but he grabbed your arm as you started toward the door.

"We were in the middle of something, I believe," he said suggestively, and a voice from the back of your mind screamed, _oh yes we were!_ "One for good luck, at least?" he asked hopefully. Your lips were on his by the time the words had left them.

As you finally left the room ten minutes later, your only thoughts were of Sirius's tongue in your mouth – perhaps not the best mindset with which to face an unknown enemy. With no clear idea of where she had hidden, you knocked on arbitrary doors throughout Grimmauld Place until you finally found yourself before the locked door of Sirius's room. As you knocked, Tonks's voice shouted something back at you in a language that sounded to be somewhere between Pig Latin and Ge'ez.

"Excuse me?" you asked mildly through the door, and you could almost hear her blush. Her cheeks probably matched her hair.

The door swung open a crack, and she leaned out, heart-shaped face glowing with anger and embarrassment that left you utterly confused. "Sorry," she muttered. "I thought you were Sirius. He and I had this secret language when I was about four... that's all I can remember."

"And what you just said means...?"

"Pretty much 'fuck you.'"

You shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other, unable to keep that ridiculous Moony-grin from your face. "And you were four."

"I had an extensive vocabulary. And Sirius wasn't a great influence." She paused. "You wanna come in?"

"I'd love to." People have always trusted you more than Sirius – he's the one they've both hated more, and loved more.

"Yeah," she continued, as you sat habitually on the corner of Sirius's bed. "We needed some way to communicate at those crazy family gatherings. My mum was in on it, too - I wish I could remember more."

You shrugged. "You remember the useful stuff." But your mind was racing back to Sirius, Sirius who had once forced himself to forget love. This was just another prison cell.

Remembering herself, and the situation, Tonks leaned against the wall, and suggested, "Can I tell you a story?"

"Sure."

"Once upon a time, in a magical land right around here, I fell in love with these two guys. Two of them. I just couldn't choose, so I never made a move. But d'you want to know the best part?"

"Nymphadora – "

"Don't you dare call me that, Remus Lupin. The best part is, they were already in love with each other. It's from a god damed Muggle soap opera, I know."

"Nym – I mean, Tonks, we weren't..." You paused, and sighed slightly, feeling like an old man. "We'd had a thing at Hogwarts."

"How much of a thing?" She sounded more interested than upset, to your relief.

"Just, you know... the kind of thing that people have. A thing that's a thing." You were never good at explaining these things; drowning in your own clumsiness, you nearly choked when she questioned, "A getting married thing?" Her eyes were laughing, but yours were lost.

"No. Just a forever and eternity thing."

"So all of this is to tell me that I don't stand a chance?" You'd expected her to be more upset, considering that she had lit Sirius's hair on fire not half an hour before.

"I'm sorry."

"Why?" She shook her head. "Don't answer that." Scrunching up her face, she altered her hair to a particularly violent shade of indigo. "I needed a change, don't you think?"

"Ah – "

"I'll be going," said, starting toward the door, "Don't much want to face Sirius just yet."

"I understand," you replied, and she said, "You do." The words felt heavier than any others in the conversation, weighing down on your shoulders. They meant: you understood the mystery that was Nymphadora Tonks.

"Tell Dumbledore I was here, next time you talk to him?" she asked, and you nodded.


	7. Nothing

**Disclaimer: ** as always, i don't own it.

**A/N: **sorry for the delay, but i've been busy and haven't gotten a chance to write yet. if anyone's curious this fic will be having three more chapter after this (one of which is already written). i'm not sure when i'll get a chance to post again, but it hope it'll be soon.

**  
**

**Chapter Seven**

The hardest part was not the occasional moment in which Sirius's memory slipped, not that in which he did not recognize you; rather, it was that, as the months stretched on, you no longer could recognize him. Not because his hair was longer, because he drank more, or anything so rational. Not because you saw him less, though this was also true.

Something in his aura had changed, in the atmosphere around him when the two of you spoke, in the impression he left behind as he exited a room. It would be clichéd to call him a cadged lion, and not entirely precise. More accurately, he might have been a man caught in a house of mirrors, shut in with no one but himself and the person whom he had become. Often, you would stop for an instant, and wonder: if this was what had come about over months trapped in Grimmauld place, what of years and years in Azkaban? It was best, you had long ago decided, not to even attempt to imagine it.

Sirius was the kind of person who deserved to be outdoors, and you were the kind of friend who should have been doing everything to get him there. Sometimes, usually the morning after one of your infrequent nights spent at Grimmauld Place, you would awaken, glance over at Sirius, still asleep, and decide that it was your fault. You could have spoken to him during the first War, you could have made him trust you, you could have gone after Peter with him, even instead of him. You could have not been a werewolf.

One morning, only moments after you had climbed out of the warmth of his bed, just as you were pulling a Muggle t-shirt of Sirius's over your head, it hit you again, how this was all your fault, how without you Sirius could be off living his life right now. Maybe married, even, with a house and a whole herd of little Siriuses pulling pranks on their Hogwarts teachers. You muttered, "Fuck," under your breath, pouring all of your venom at your life, at fate and at love, into the word, as you hurried around the room in a t-shirt and boxers, searching for a decent pair of pants.

"Fuck what?" Sirius called from the bed in a lethargic, half-asleep tone. At just after eight o'clock, it was hours before he would have ordinarily been awake.

"Nothing." Offering a watery, false smile, you suggested, "Breakfast?"

He ignored this entirely, just as you knew he would. When Sirius Black wanted something, especially from you, he would stop at nothing to obtain it; this was simply his nature. "C'mon, Moony, you know you never swear unless it's for something worthwhile. And I want to hear it."

You told him the truth, because you were Moony, and that was what Moony was supposed to do; you told him because you could not think of a believable lie, and because you were desperate to hear his voice telling you that you were wrong. You told him that it was your fault.

And he stared at you as though you had slapped him across the face. "Moony, what…?"

"I told you. Nothing," you replied with an air of impatience, voice hardly wavering. Your pants from the day before had been lurking beneath the bed, and you slipped into them as quickly as you could, preparing to make your excuses and leave.

"I don't ever want to hear you say that again, Remus Lupin. Never again, d'you hear me?" He had sat up, going from being only half awake to alert and ready to act within seconds, and his tone was a cross between that of a disappointed teacher and a man about to commit murder. "Merlin, I feel like I'm giving a pep talk to an angsting teenager." He shook his head in an anger that was not at all directed at you. "Anyways, this place isn't so bad." His words meant: at least he wasn't in Azkaban. "At least I've got you here with me."

"Oh." You swallowed and braced yourself, continuing, "About that. Dumbledore says I've got to come here less. Something about exposing locations or whatever. And he's given me another assignment." The metaphorical drums of doom were almost audible at your statement, and he winced.

"Who's supposed do stop me from jumping out a window when Kreatcher's driving me mad?" he asked finally, playfully, and you shook your head.

You watched him carefully that morning until the moment you stepped through the door – watched the black hole that had formed between the two of you, as he attempted to cover it with four cups of black coffee and a handful of old inside jokes.


	8. Conclusions

**Disclaimer: **not mine.

**A/N:** there will be two more chapters after this, one of which is already written, and one that i don't think i can write very easily, so it might be awhile before i update again. also, i'm having general writer's block for this story, but i thought i should at least try to post more, so i kind of forced it out. please alert me to mistakes.

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**Chapter Eight**

It was roughly halfway between twilight and dawn; it was nearly April, and you had not been to Grimmauld Place in over a month. The upcoming Order meeting, not scheduled to take place for another two days, was your excuse to see him again; you could hardly recall his smell anymore, and this frightened you more than you let on.

As soon as you descended the steps to the kitchen, you could feel something achingly wrong, though unnamable. Instead of the usually deathly silence, punctured only by the sounds of footsteps and small objects breaking, or earsplitting music on the Muggle record player you had given Sirius for his sixteenth birthday, two quiet voices drifted toward you, two familiar voices; you pushed the door open silently, unnoticed by the kitchen's two occupants.

Tonk's hand was on his leg. You had been the calm marauder, never the jealous, jumping-to-conclusions type, but as his hand, in turn, was on hers, and they were speaking quietly, their lips inches apart, you were hardly making improbable assumptions. You could never help but to stereotype Sirius – as a marauder, as himself, as a member of the Noble and Most Inbreeding House of Black. It stood to reason, therefore, that his hand should be slowly working its way farther up his cousin's leg. It stood to reason that he should have forgotten you, that you had never been good enough.

And you wondered how often they had sat just so, in the past; how often they would do it again.

She giggled, softly, and you noticed that her hair had taken on the same shade as his, the same thick, tangled texture, the same wild appeal that should have belonged to no one else. You cleared your throat. Two hands ran back to their owners, with a symmetrical grace and lightning speed.

With a cowardice you both understood and respected, she excused herself from the situation, left the room. You noticed an unopened bottle of firewhisky by her feet.

"It's taken you long enough," he said, emotions guarded. "Busy saving the world?" His tone was not bitter, or angry, but filled with that unnamable emotion that he had always saved for you. You had never been sure whether to be honored by this, or afraid of it.

"Don't I deserve a chance to?"

"Don't I?"

"I'm sorry if I've frightened Nymphadora off," you apologized finally, leaning against the worn kitchen table and biting your lip, inspecting your fingernails in a way that was altogether feminine, and altogether your own. Your words had nothing to do with regret and everything to do with the unspoken question.

He knew the question. He spoke your language almost better than you yourself did. He said, "It wasn't real," which was not entirely an answer, but altogether an insult, to you and to her, though probably not meant this way. "You're never around anymore. How was I supposed to know if you would give a shit or not?" You thought, _no, it wasn't supposed to be this way._

As you considered how to respond, and Sirius stormed off like a five-year-old throwing a temper tantrum, and you sank heavily into the nearest chair. A few maps had been left lying on the table, presumably from the previous Order meeting – you had missed it, with all the top-secret, self-important business that Dumbledore had shooed you away on. Thin, spidery blue lines twirled and danced their way across the page, outlining various sections of the Ministry, of Muggle London surrounding it. The maps were glaring up at you, their smirks evident in what seemed to be the calm before the storm.

The story could have gone differently. It crossed your mind to go after Sirius, to find him in his room and apologize, to talk, to laugh, to kiss and maybe more. You could have stood, right then, and ascended the steps, you could have braced yourself and knocked on his door, he could have sworn and possibly thrown small object at you as you entered his room, and all could have been perfect. Might-have-beens are what create your life, and shape you; they've made you tell yourself, _if_ everything had been different, _if_ you had not been a werewolf, _if_ there had not been a war, _if_ England were your own private utopia… You were never sure what came after _if_.

Nonetheless, _if_ Harry's head had not appeared in the fire at that very moment, _than_ the world could have been a different place.

But it did, of course; history is history, and history does not change. Harry's head appeared in the fire, and when you ran to tell Sirius – who, of course, had gone _"upstairs to look for Kreacher, he seems to be hiding in the attic again…" _– he was too wound up in his own elation and worry to even recognize your presence. Reminiscence and nostalgia wound their way around the scene, blinding love, and the moment Harry had gone, the two of you sat stunned.

"He really used to mess up his hair like that?" Sirius asked, at last, in that hushed, dismayed tone that you couldn't stand, as the Dopplebeater defense struck again.

"All the time," you promised, and when he looked away with that tiny bit of self-loathing in his eyes, you almost wanted to cry.

"I do remember the snitch," he allowed, grinning at the memory. "I don't think I could ever forget the goddamn snitch."

And you wished that you could still be four – well, three – teenaged idiots again, with nothing more to concern you than Quidditch and full moons, and a half-formed war lurking somewhere untouchable.

Then came the part, as it had to, where you said the wrong thing, made the wrong promise, the wrong command, as you were doomed to do. "Harry'll be fine."

No reply.

"_Please, _Padfoot. Don't go after Snape or do something stupid like that."

"I though we had agreed that we'd grown out of the stupid phase." He phrased it like a joke, and spoke it like a prayer.

"You never did." There was something in the back of your mind, something that made you want to shout, _"How does it feel to be the mistrusted one?"_ but you didn't, because ancient history can never be changed, certainly not with heated words and slammed doors. Instead, you impulsively lifted the bottle of firewhisky from the floor, and found yourself wishing it could be Halloween again. For some reason, you couldn't imagine that there would be another Halloween at all –

It felt like the beginning of the end of the world.


	9. No Lies

Disclaimer: not mine.

A/N: i'd like to thank everyone who's been pacient enough to read this story (especially to those who reviewed). i had originally intended this to be the last chapter, with an epilogue afterward, but sirius is my love and i couldn't stand to kill him just yet - i know that when i write that chapter i'll most likely have a huge emotional breakdown, and now just isn't a good time for that. this chapter is a bit different from the others, but i'm in no way trying to change the focus of this story, just to explore it a bit more. bear with me.

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**Chapter Nine**

Setting: the dingy corner of some pub with the name on its sign obscured by grime, Knockturn Alley, London, England, The World. Two mugs whose contents you didn't care to guess at sat on the table, though neither you nor your acquaintance had touched them. Someone had carved a rough Dark Mark in the wood of your chair, the kind that in another life came dangerously close to appearing on your arm. The lighting was dim, the space crowded with a wary bubble of emptiness between your table and the rest of the room.

You fit in with all this, your graying hair and patched clothing to match the mottled scene, slouching aberrantly with both elbows on the table while across from you, a monster sometimes mistaken for a man lounged in his chair – when you'd called him _Greyback_, he had chortled but made no direct reply.

"It's always such a touching moment, when a parent and child meet," he had been saying, licking his lips in that way of his, as though you were a piece of meat. Into your mind flashed the words: _"Luke, I am your father,"_ quickly pushed away because it was not the time for mugglisms.

"But I am not touched by your presence here, Remus Lupin," Greyback concluded with a suspicious leer, spiking up the front of his coarse, dandruff-dusted hair with bony fingers. "I suppose you think I know nothing of your history, child. Mixed up with humans and Dumbledore's nonsense for years."

This is not a time to argue your case; he is, essentially, the leader of a human wolf pack, and this is your time to bow before the alpha.

"Let me see…" He scratches at the stubble on his chin as though checking for fleas, head tilted slightly to the side but still meeting your eyes with his own bloodshot ones. "Original Order member. Think I didn't know that? It's what parents are _for_, though I suppose yours were quick enough to forget you."

Too proud to agree and too wary to argue, you picked at the splintering edge of the table. "I was under the impression that my loyalty was in question, not my past."

He ignored this. "After our Ally's… departure, you disappeared for twelve years. Hidden by Dumbledore, no doubt."

"From him." No lie.

"_From_ the old fool? This is unexpected." Greyback glowered, mistrusting the first words of truth you have spoken in days.

"There had been a… disagreement." you remember shouting and swearing, overdue immaturity that you had missed out on for all your teenage years became the thing that beat your pulse, crashing through you in waves. November third, was it? Second, fourth? 1981, you thought, although the years have since smeared together. Nonetheless, not long enough after the full moon to stand and scream in emptiness without supporting yourself on nearby furniture, panting for breath.

Dumbledore, always the damage control, had said, "I understand." Old fool, indeed. Shining sliver and gold instruments of obscure uses and worth more than his every last possession had shattered against ancient walls.

And later, in a Muggle hotel room just a mile away from the forbidden child whose third word had been _moo'y_, you kept nothing to your name but a few photographs you couldn't bear to see, and a rolled up newspaper of sometime that week that proved your world hand ended. You made paper bars for the window, curled up like a sleeping dog against the wall and imagined a prison cell.

Dropping like flies, you thought to yourself, when you could think at all. Identical flies that hit you from all sides on their way down, like bludgers in a Dopplebeater defense.

As you remembered all this, running your finger over the carved Dark Mark on your chair, your pseudo-parent watched closely, calculatingly; he was there while it all clicked in your eyes, while you realized where you wanted to be. You took a sip of whatever was in that mug, tried not to choke as it burned you. Made your excuses and hoped he bought them, left without looking back.


	10. Conditional

**Disclaimer:** i don't own this.

**A/N:** thanks to Gimyóngsuk, DreamlndxFantasy, rekahneko, discombobulated.shoe, and angelofplottwists for reviewing my last chapter - you guys make this all worth it. :D

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**Chapter Ten **

This is how it could have happened.

When you apparated back to Number Four, early in the afternoon, the lively Sirius from sometime before everything could have greeted you at the door, sober – naked, if you were especially lucky. Without regard for any past history, for wistful mistrust and stolen moments, he could have pushed you up against the wall, knocked the hulking umbrella stand out of the way. Or better, against his mother's portrait, while she would shriek, with the both of you past caring. It would be a Hogwarts broom cupboard all over again, without any risk of Filch reaching in for a broom, without even any need to lock the door, and it would have been perfect.

On some imperative Order business, Severus might have burst through the door, glanced around, and stumbled back out, tripping over a pile of your clothes on his way. Blushing as though he had never seen you naked before, scowling, and Sirius could have called after him: "Hey Snivellus, don't you wanna join in?"

The door would shut behind him, the two of you lost in childish laughter, still laughing as Kreacher in his infinite wisdom attempted to wrestle you from the room, pausing to reassure the desperate Harry who appeared in the fireplace and to set the world right again.

But this is not what happened, and the earth has always sat just a bit crooked on its axis. You left you meeting with Greyback with shaking steps, full of love and comprehension and memories of fourteen years ago.

"Can you believe it was Sirius?" someone had asked you, in November of the year that everything went to Hell and the people all cheered in the streets. It was a day or two after the fact.

If there is one thing you have never been accused of, it is disbelief. "No," you lied, in false incredulity, "No. I can't – " You had never had much faith in the information shoveled upon your head in a History of Magic class, the facts you memorized from each textbook with a faithful intensity, as though they could save your monster-tainted soul – but the conviction in human capability, emotional and mental aptitude had come naturally. Sirius could kill, just as you supposed you also could.

Without even the details – who, how, why – _why…_ you could see it happening, you could feel his heart beating in your chest, the story built up inside you like the underwear of Slytherin house had on the roof, sometime long ago. You did not think the obvious, _'I could have done something,'_ but instead a more candid, _'I _should_ have done something.'_

The Muggles had already thrown their bright yellow caution tape everywhere, sagging in the rainstorm that had begun on That Night. A mound of candles and flowers had been inartistically arranged beneath an awning made of rubble, protection from the rain. Crumpled sympathy cards and tiny wooden crosses and all for something that never should have happened.

You had been the one who let it come to this, and you taunted yourself like none other. _Should_ you have done something? Say you should have. Say you should have, and Sirius will return, he'll jump into your lap, Padfoot in all his glory. He'll paw at you and cuddle against you with his breath on your neck – you'll mutter something like, "Stop it, this feels so _wrong_ when you're not human," but he won't change because he's never been one to listen to your petty requests.

So here is another theory, what could have been, what could have been, what could have been.

"Anything the matter?" he'd asked with almost mocking nonchalance.

You could have kept your urge to rebuke his accusing stance, could have answered with more than a simple, "No" – "Just worried, you know?" you could have said. Slowly, surely, hmmm? You could have wheedled it out of him, whatever led to – to This – you could have saved him, or so it's easier to believe. You could have sweet-talked your once-lover with thoughts of Quidditch and firewhisky and late nights under the stars.

Unlike love affairs and Muggle soap operas, living fantasies such as this never really ended. You dreamed he would come until the day he came, and by then you were almost too hardened to care.

And that is what you thought, as you hesitantly slipped inside to a stream of swears interspersed with the name "Kreacher" and something about a hippogriff and Dumbledore's mother, and it was just another day that was going to be – just another day – and he was slipping and you were too.

You tapped him on the shoulder like a shy schoolboy, and he glanced up with surprise, relief, mistrust. "You again," he said.

"Me again."


	11. Better and Better

**Disclaimer:** you know already.

** A/N:** thanks to all my reviewers, once again - especially those who have reviewed more than once. and look at me, updating almost... regularly?!

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**Chapter Eleven**

"Today gets better and better," Sirius commented, whether sarcastically or no, and you were almost relieved to see that, in the time since you were last together, his demeanor has gone from disheveled and drunken to alert and worried. "I suppose Snivellus contacted you, then?" The two of you were sitting in that kitchen, again, he on the table, using the back of your chair as a footrest.

"Sev– Snape?" You caught yourself just in time. The blatant concern in Sirius's tone had distracted you from that pact made a year or so before, that any relationship you might ever have had with Severus Snape is a thing of the past, a thing of a needy and tactless past, of poor judgment and to be forgotten. Therefore, cautiously, you asked, "What's Snape got to do with it?" You were there to confess your undying love to the only one you could never stand to loose, and couldn't stand to have this in your way.

"He said something about me being alive, what a shame it was. Said the Order'd better get ourselves together, we needed to 'regroup' and 'prepare.' He wouldn't tell me more, I think Mad-Eye heard – but Moony, don't tell me you don't know what's going on – "

"I don't," you cut through, taking a ragged breath, because you had so much to say, you were going to put things right and the remaining true Marauders would conquer the world – when you were young Prongs had made Snape's underwear sing a ballad, and Voldie seemed now as good a next victim as any.

"Padfoot –" you began, in a tone a bit less mild than usual, before three Order members tumbled down the stairs, Moody at their head.

"Can someone tell me what the bloody hell is going on?" you asked at once, calm as you could. It's Moody who explained, already shepherding the rest out the door.

And later, in the Ministry elevator with a growing sense of doom and a fading sense of time, packed in between Shacklebolt and Tonks, Sirius hisseed in your ear, his breath tickling: "What was it you were saying, before – ?"

You shook your head. "Doesn't matter." Those two words nearly killed you. "Let's just get through this, talk later, alright?"

He nodded in that way you missed, that way from sometime back at school when he's thinking so hard his brain is buzzing and he won't admit it; you gripped your wand a bit tighter, knuckles growing paler, and hoped for the moment when would all be over.

And sometime in the fighting, he'd maneuvered wildly and clutched onto you, ducking a curse, his dark hair flying in his face, and you were afraid for the moment when his hands will leave your shoulders. He pulled you down, away from the next spell, a blinding green one that you hated to recognize. "Me too," he said, sending another jet of light flying up past your head.

It took a moment to hit you – something about a conversation you were supposed to have before, or was it after – after _this _­– and you tried not to break into a grin: at his timing, at the world turning properly for once. You should have trusted Sirius to read your mind.

Just once, ducked behind a stone bench with a raging battle around you, the pink-and-black blur that was Tonks and Bellatrix's duel, in a haze of friction and completion, he leaned in and kissed you, aggressive but quick. His hand was around the back of your head; his wand digging into your skull was the least of your worries.

At last he pulled away to leave you thinking of nothing more than his tongue, dizzy with adrenaline and hope while spells flashed everywhere. "We've got to get Harry out of here," he said worriedly, as you pulled each other to your feet for this one last stand.


	12. As They Say

**Disclaimer:** if i owned it, this chapter would never have had to happen.

**A/N: **if you have a problem with the plot, you may tell jk. if you are offended by sirius's language, take it up with him. if you have something to tell me about my writing, or just wanna say hey, hit the review button.**  
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**Chapter Twelve**

The rest, as they say, is history, but History has no soul. History has never danced drunk on the kitchen table of Grimmauld Place, just as History was not the one who fell, none too gently, off the table and into your arms, murmuring something like, "Bloody _hell_, I love Christmas," in the middle of the past July.

And History can't remember how everything slowed down – red lights and green lights that made you think of Muggle traffic lights, everyone watching like it was no more than a game of Quidditch: _Wronski feint? Oh, he'd better watch out, they're coming in for a Dopplebeater Defense –_

You weren't cheering him on in this sick and twisted game that has sometimes been called a war (though it's always felt too personal for such a title); you weren't thinking, _oh Merlin, oh Merlin…_ All you could see was the stone room, cold stone and their two faces, matching dark hair like how you remembered, the year he was bold enough to invite you for Christmas.

"Who invited that _thing_, in here anyways?" she had asked, gesturing in your direction with that fierce look that could see right through you, her mother calling, "_Bella_, be nice," in a way that meant she couldn't care less.

Sirius, twelve years old with a glare with a to rival her own, had said something like, "Yeah, Trixie, mind your own shit" – you couldn't quite remember the wording, but her eyes had blazed the way they did as they did when the red light left her wand, glowing red light. Just a tiny beam, like a fairy from a Muggle movie or a _Fairy_ as you've been called tauntingly and waved off with the slamming of your dormitory door.

Just that light between the two of them, in a world that would not move forward. _Be nice, Bella,_ Sirius had called scathingly from his cell to hers; when he told you about Azkaban, he would leave out the dementors.

"Blood traitor," she had muttered.

"Yeah, well, at least I'm not Voldemort's whore."

"It was an honor." Sirius never put in the details, never liked to mention the cold or the screams, just two voices floating in a void.

"You sick, twisted – "

"Twisted? _I'm_ not the Gryffindor."

Sirius claimed he had laughed at this; he did not define 'laugh.'

"Bastard."

"Cunt."

Knowing Sirius, this could have gone on for a while, and knowing the Dementors, it could have been cut short quite abruptly with a wave of cold and death.

He's falling, now. He's falling, mid-laugh, with those hollow eyes just like hers – they were beautiful children, that Christmas, weren't they? – and all you can think is, _"Trixie, you fucking cunt," _and it's not your voice thinking it.

You grab a shell-shocked and struggling Harry – _"We've got to get Harry out of here," he said_ – like he's a lifeline, when he's ceased to you to be much more than a few last words added to an increasing list.

The thing is, you aren't that Remus who could feel Azkaban's chill slipping through Sirius's soul and settling in yours, over fourteen years ago, you aren't the Remus who could loose his scholarly quietude to shout and scream, days after Halloween, almost louder and more violent as a human than on a full moon.

There is a nasty side effect of devoting so much of your life to the War, of years to teach yourself to avoid the past, and that is: you can lose and lose and lose and lose and never let it touch you.

You can hold onto Harry as though you'll never release him – but then, you never meant to let go of Sirius, either.


	13. Epilogue: Dopplebeater Revisited

**Disclaimer:** It's not mine, I don't own it, don't sue me.

**A/N:** i understand that this chapter comes off pretty strongly remus/tonks; while i in no way like the idea of them two together, i wanted to find some way of making this fic fit into canon, so really i had no choice. but anyways, here it is! the end. i'd like to thank everyone who has stuck with this fic, especially those who reviewed, and even more those who reviewed more than one chapter. for anyone who's interested, i've got another new-ish fic called "one of the few," which has a new chapter coming soon.

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**Epilogue**

You sit beneath the kitchen table at Number Twelve, leaning against one of its thick wooden legs, knees pulled up to your chin, the way you did just before your second transformation, when you were four years old. "No, Mummy," you clearly remember saying, "it's safe down here. The monster can't get me." She had needed to drag you away, and you nearly killed her in the process, which is something like the story of your life.

Tilting your head, you stare at the familiar rough-cut wooden furniture. He sat in that chair. In that one, right there. Then you leaned forward, across the table, lips ready, eyes half-shut –

But you are no longer across that table from him; you are under it, and he is gone. Blinking a few times, you realize you already can't quite picture his face. Dark eyes, were they? Yes, almost Black eyes, you would pun, Black eyes but rarely serious.

There's a shroud over your memories, swaying slightly in an invisible breeze but never quite lifting enough for you to see beyond it. You know if you could lift the veil you could see Sirius, but the wind isn't strong enough to pull the curtain aside, and this, you think is how he felt when you first kissed him.

Everything you are thinking and feeling should not be new to you – loosing Sirius is not a novel experience, but more of tired habit, echoing through your history. Fate will not spit him back at you this time, you know. He and James will sit on a cloud somewhere and laugh, while you crouch beneath this goddamned table, blaming no one and everyone and yourself.

The kitchen door opens, then shuts, as uneven footsteps shuffle toward you, though you cannot see the newcomer past the wooden maze of chair- and table-legs.

"Cozy, down there, is it?" asks a voice – familiar and pleasant, if somewhat drained.

"Out of Saint Mungo's already, Nymphadora?" you ask, too lethargic to feel embarrassment or to recall any previous resentment. She gets down on her hands and knees and crawls over to sit beside you, wincing slightly in pain as she does so; for once, she does not correct your use of her full name, which stings a bit, even if you won't admit it.

"I snuck out," she answers, almost flippantly, tone contradicted by the hollowness of her eyes. "All that time just staring at the ceiling and thinking, with everyone asking me if I was alright… I couldn't stand it." Her hair is black, you notice, and a bit curly; she looks less alive without the horridly bright pink you've grown so used to, and far too much like Bellatrix Lestrange for comfort.

It is another Dopplebeater Defense, a double attack that hits you in the gut, winding you, though you don't let on. If you've made it through the past few days, an endless whirlwind of Order meetings, condolences and false laughter, meaningless politics and the piles of clothing littering his floor that smell just – just like him – if you've managed to spend up to thirty seconds without dwelling on some ancient Hogwarts memory involving fireworks and grass-stains and the dead of night, if you have spread a thick, colorblind carpet of responsibility and obligation over the empty hole beneath which you suppose your heart has died, it certainly couldn't matter less if her hair is just the color of his, and his killer's.

"I won't ask, then." Your voice doesn't tremble. This is almost how you used to speak to Sirius.

She says gently, "You've got another grey hair," pushing it out of your face with fingers that are altogether too mild.

"That happens, sometimes," you agree placidly. Your thoughts are jumbled and cluttered; there is a pause, in which you, quiet by nature, have no idea what to say next, unless it is simply that you lack the drive to open your lips, unless you are afraid of what words might spill out.

"Hey." She drops all pretense of nonchalance and cranes her neck to look you right in the eye. Her tone solemn, she continues, "There's this thing that I need to say, so just – hear me out." If she apologizes for trying to take him from you, you don't think you'll be able to stand it, and you certainly won't be responsible for your own actions. "I know it was my fault, and I just needed to tell you – "

Shocked, you interrupt, trying to put her right even if it costs you're your sanity, "It was _my_ fault...why are you..." you stumble over your words, and fall silent again. That she used to be your competition, younger and less worthy, no longer matters. She loved Sirius, you loved Sirius, and all else is irrelevant; before you know what you are doing, you are crying, something you could never have done in front of Sirius without blushing like a schoolboy. Crying like you haven't cried since – since Prongs – and she is right beside you, and you are slipping, falling into her arms and vaguely thinking that Sirius would laugh his arse off if he could see you now.

Hours later, you awaken, cramped and wet with both your tears and hers, to find Molly looking on with eyebrows raised.


	14. Epilogue: Fairy Princess

**Disclaimer: **not mine.

**A/N:** bet you thought the story was over, huh? it's been a while, yeah, but i decided to add this... you know, just because. i hope you like it. 

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**Epilogue: Fairy Princess**

When you see him, you know it is over. He's younger, of course; his eyes are no longer sunken, but shining, and he's dressed in Muggle clothes: tight black jeans clearly not meant for one of his gender, which draw your eyes straight to his arse; a baggy crimson t-shirt, and a golden tiara. His hair is glossy and smooth and you can remember being an adolescent and running your hands through it while he pinned you to the floor of some secret passageway or other. He doesn't exactly come out of nowhere, but wanders leisurely through the masses of warring wizards around you, not quite solid but certainly no ghost.

The Great Hall has become a combat zone; raindrops fall from its enchanted ceiling but disappear before reaching the ground, and everywhere are yells, shouts: swearwords and spells and battle-cries. Your back is to the stone wall, leaving you only in danger from enemies in your line of vision. Everywhere is frantic, manic fighting; you and your wife stand side-to-side and you pray that she gets out of this mess and returns to the baby because you cannot bear to think of him waking alone.

You send a quick tripping spell at your adversary, who lands sprawled on his back, buying you a few seconds to say the name that you have avoided like the plague for two long years. "Sirius?"

"No, I'm your fairy princess." He smirks and gestures toward the thin golden crown. When you were young, maybe seven years old, you were sure that when you kissed your blond neighbor-girl your curse would be lifted, and found yourself sorely disappointed at the next moon as you screamed and cried and could not stop the wolf from taking over. It is more logical, of course, that your princess would be Sirius – Sirius who once said he would take down the moon with a slingshot if it would free you.

For a few seconds, you just stare at him, and it is lucky that your opponent turns to see what you are looking at, rather than get to his feet, because if he were to fire a curse at you now you would have no time to duck. It is evident from the confusion on the man's face that he cannot see your lover.

"C'mon," Sirius adds, "hurry up and get rid of him, we've been planning your surprise party for ages and I hate to keep James waiting." There is a pause of less than a second before he realizes aloud: "Oh, shit. I've ruined the surprise."

"Now is really not the best time, mate," you inform him. "I've got – "

"Remus Lupin, who the bloody hell do you think you're talking to?" your wife calls to you with a worry so strong it is almost anger. Rather than answer, you dodge a beam of green light, a near miss whose heat you can feel as it narrowly misses your cheek.

"Aw,_fuck_," you hear her proclaim; a glance in her direction shows that her wand is nowhere to be seen, and her hair and eyes have changed to their dark ancestral color, and you wonder whether she did it on purpose, or if it was just an instinctive doing in the heat of the moment, and if the fact that she cannot see Sirius but you can means that she is going to survive this after all, and that you will have to leave her alone, which is the last thing you want to do. Your thoughts flow so quickly you can hardly keep track of them.

"Just kick his arse, already," Sirius calls to you, impatient, adjusting his tiara as you feel your wand slip though your fingers and soar in an arc over the battling crowd. Your adversary is still on the ground, gasping for breath, and if only you still had your wand you could finish him and move on to another. He struggles to his feet. Beside you, your wandless wife is playing a bizarre game of dodgeball, jumping over curses, ducking beneath them; she glances over, and, seeing you in a similar situation, lets forth a few more swearwords. You meet her eyes, and several things happen at once, almost too quickly for comprehension.

She leaps away from a light-beam, landing directly in front of you; a second ray of light comes straight toward the pair of you; it hits her chest head-on, and she sways, falls, right into your arms. Sure that this cannot be happening, you sink to the floor with her, because obviously you are having a very bad dream. A thin, wolf-like whine escapes your lips: "Dora… Dora, please…" You hug her to you like you will never let go, and it is only when you look up that you realize that this is real.

She jumps into Sirius's arms, like something out of a Muggle romance movie; her feet are off the floor and he clutches her to him perhaps even more tightly than you are doing. "Nymphie!" he exclaims happily, and she kisses his cheek.

This, of course, leads you to make the only obvious move; dash forwards and forcibly grab the shoulders of her killer, knee him in the groin, then stomp on his ribcage once he has fallen to the ground. You find yourself suddenly illuminated from several directions, as though on a lighted stage, and before you can crumple to the floor you step outside of yourself as though it is the most natural act in the world.

Sirius, having set his cousin back down, is looking straight at you, with that trademark grin that you've missed so much that you can feel a hole inside you refill, and you know you are never going to lose him again.


End file.
